


Spoons

by heatgeneratingtechniques



Series: Based on things they've said [1]
Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-16 04:36:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8087575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heatgeneratingtechniques/pseuds/heatgeneratingtechniques
Summary: Practicing for the Dirty 30 spooning scene opens up a whole ‘nother can of worms. It’s the same story, told from two perspectives.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this thanks to [arel-rhink‘s](archiveofourown.org/users/Arel_Rhink/) [earlier post.](http://arel-rhink.tumblr.com/post/150676586128)

**Rhett’s POV**

When I suggest that we practice spooning, he protests, because _of course he does._

“But think about it!” I say, twirling my pen around my fingers. “Do you wanna be the guys on set who are super uncomfortable with touching one another, or do you want us to get through this scene like it’s a natural thing?”

He looks at me and looks away again, one hand absently tapping on the table. He’s considering this, I can tell.

“Plus,” I add, “it’ll give us an excuse to rest in the middle of the day.”

“All right,” he says finally. “But no funny business.”

I laugh. “What’s funny about it? We’re just practicing for a scene.”

So I stretch out on the couch, my legs dangling over the edge. Link watches me get settled, arms crossed, his mouth lifted in amusement.

“You look ridiculous,” he says.

I pat the cushions beside me. “Get over here, man.”

As he settles on the couch in front of me, shifting to find a comfortable position, a realization hits me: it’s been a while since we’ve been this close. When we were kids, we used to wrestle and grab each other all the time. That largely stopped after college, but a part of me misses it. I chuckle to myself now when I see Locke and Lincoln sparring, their moods caught somewhere between playfulness and real anger. It reminds me so much of us.

His hair smells like apples. I’m almost too afraid to move lest he change his mind about this.  


“You’re not doing it right, man,” he says after a moment. “Is this how you hold your wife? You’re terrible at it. Look…” He takes my hands and pulls them firmly around his middle. “There. Now hold on tight. You don’t gotta be such a limp fish, all right? I _did_ shower today.”

Maybe it’s because I’m used to holding Jessie like this and her small body is the opposite of mine, but I’m struck by how much… how much _broader_ Link feels. There’s nothing small or soft about him at all. He kept up with going to the gym like I never could, and I can feel the results in the firmness of his arms.

Or maybe that’s just him holding himself stiffly because I’m spooning him.

“You’ve been working out,” I say.

He laughs. “Every day, brother.” He flexes, just enough for me to feel the swell of his muscles, and I feel a fluttering in my stomach that leaves me feeling shaky.

We stay on the couch for a few minutes, me breathing in the scent of his hair and loving how still he is.

“All right.” His voice startles me fully awake; I hadn’t realized I was falling asleep. He smacks my hand lightly. “Time to get up.”

When he gets up, when he leaves me to go back to his desk, I feel a flicker of disappointment. It’s the most trivial feeling, as if I’d just learned that Jersey Mike’s ran out of cheesesteaks, but it still leaves me feeling a bit… _lost._

The next few times we practice – always in the afternoon when the rest of the crew is deep in their work or in the evening after everyone else has gone home – he doesn’t protest. He sinks into my arms almost willingly, it seems, with a sigh that tells me he’s content to be held. He has a lot to say about _how_ I hold him, though. Apparently, he likes a firm grip. He likes being right up against me. He wants his head to be right below my chin and he wants our legs to bend the same way, otherwise our legs cross each other, and he doesn’t want to feel my leg hair.

I don’t mind. Whatever makes him comfortable so we can do this right. Besides, I like holding him. Being near him reminds me of childhood, when we’d wrestle and I’d pin him beneath me with my heavier weight. Being near him reminds me of thoughts about him that I haven’t considered in years.

“This is nice, man,” he says one afternoon. “I almost feel like I could take a nap.” He’s not joking; I hear the sincerity beneath the smile in his voice. “You’re like a-a freaking giant blanket. I feel… I feel _better_ after we do this. Like more relaxed. Is that weird?”

“Physical contact helps reduce stress,” I say. “There’ve actually been a lot of studies done that show –”

“Keep talking and I really _will_ fall asleep.”

I shut my mouth. _Nice one, Rhett._  


We’re both quiet for a while. His hair smells like strawberries today.

“Hey Link, what kind of shampoo have you been using?”

No response. I realize that his hands are limp, his breathing deep and regular.

As carefully as I can, I slip out from behind him. He’s sound asleep, mouth gaping open like a fish. I take off his glasses and place them on the coffee table, unzip my hoodie and drape it over him. When he wakes up, he’ll probably be pissed that I let him fall asleep, since there’s are several more brand deal offers that we were hoping to review this afternoon. But he needs to rest. Work can always wait for another day. The puffy dark circles beneath his eyes weren’t always there, nor should they be.

He sleeps for almost two hours. I don’t notice when he finally wakes up, but at one point I glance up to see if he’s awake yet and feel my heart seize up.

He’s awake, still sprawled across the couch, and watching me with a lazy, sleepy smile spread across his face. When his eyes meet mine, that smile grows wider and he doesn’t look away.

~

Another day, another round of spooning practice. I'm enjoying this more than I’d like to admit, but I’m starting to get tired of my arm always going numb. He snorts when I tell him this.

“Y’know, I was wondering something.” I can feel his voice vibrating through my hands on his chest. “Why does the taller person always have to be the bigger spoon?” He squirms around to face me, his nose so close to mine that I flinch.

“Man, your breath stinks!”

He ignores me. “Let me hold you this time.”

“But I’m bigger–”

He puts his hands on my waist and tries to turn me around, his fingers digging in almost painfully. His grip leaves me tingling all over and for a moment I forget what the heck I’m supposed to be doing.

“Come on, man!” He’s impatient now. “Let’s trade places.”

It takes a little bit more maneuvering for this to work. I feel like I’m about to fall off the couch.

“Your hair spikes are poking me in the face,” he says, annoyed. “Move down some.”

It’s strange to be held. Jessie’s so small that her attempts at holding me usually end in me picking her up and spinning her around because I know that makes her laugh. The last time I remember someone _holding_ me was when I was still in elementary school – second or third grade maybe? –  when I’d fractured my arm while playing with friends one summer. Link walked home beside me, pushing both of our bikes since my arm hurt too much for me to ride. When we got home, Mom practically picked me up even though I think I was nearly her height by then. Remembering how awkward I felt that Link was there while my mother fluttered around me makes me grin for some reason.

He hugs me closer to him ever-so-slightly. “What are you chuckling about?”

“Remember that time I broke my arm in elementary school?”

“Yep,” he says quickly. “Third grade. We were playing tag and you tripped in a rabbit hole and fell. Ben wanted everyone to try catching the rabbits, but I remember you were trying not to cry so I walked you home. Your mom got pretty upset.”

He always remembers those little details. I reach for his hand and squeeze it, feeling a warm rush of affection when he squeezes back. I’m tingling all over again. “I was thinking about how that was the last time anyone really held me. Outside of my girlfriends. And my wife.”

He laughs. “I know, I was thinking the same thing. Kinda weird, ain’t it?”

Neither of us speak for a moment. My eyelids are growing heavy. Link was right; this _is_ relaxing.

“This isn’t relaxing,” he says suddenly, jolting me from a light doze. “My arm’s falling asleep.”

He pushes me unceremoniously off the couch. That feeling of vague disappointment returns, stronger now, as I watch him get up and stretch.

“I don’t want to be the big spoon, but I do want to take a nap,” he says, yawning. “Let’s try something else. Come with me.”

I follow him up to the loft, feeling shaky for reasons I’m not ready to think about yet.

Link flops down on his recliner and pats his chest. “Come here.”

The recliners we put up here are much longer than the couch, long enough that my legs aren’t hanging uncomfortably over the edge. There’s an awkward moment as I straddle Link’s waist to get on top of him, a moment where his eyes slide away and his fists tighten, but he says nothing. Then my head’s on his chest and his arms are around me and I feel comforted somehow, safe from concerns I hadn’t realized were plaguing me until now.

“There,” he says, voice rumbling in my ear pressed against his chest. “That’s better, isn’t it.”

My hands are sweating and my mouth has gone dry. “Yeah.”

“This is kinda weird, though.”

I laugh. “ _We_ are kinda weird, Link.”

He chuckles. “You’re right.”

There’s a long silence. I listen to his breathing, which soon becomes slow and even. When I lift my head to check, I find him fast asleep again.

“Wish I could fall asleep like that,” I say softly.

A sudden thought jolts me wide awake. _Who knows if he’ll want to do this tomorrow?_

“Hey Link?”

No response but a snore. I study his face for a moment. We haven’t filmed the show in a few days, and already his stubble is long enough for me to see the patches of gray in it.

“I wish we could do this more,” I whisper. “Like… like not just because the script says to do it.”

There are other things I want to say, dangerous things, words that make my hands sweaty just thinking about them. I can’t say them yet. Not while I’m in his arms like this. I tamp those words down and bury them back where they belong.

“Sometimes I wonder… what it would be like if we didn’t catch ourselves getting so uptight about touching each other? I know we both like doing this. I mean, I think you like it.” I stole another glance at his sleeping face, smooth and serene. “But once we film the scene are you still gonna want to do this? I know you don’t always like it when I’m grabbing on you when we’re filming. I mean, I don’t always like it when you grab _me_. But maybe we could talk about… about being more affectionate towards each other. I-I think that’s something we both need.”

The words hang in the silence, turning as gently as chimes without a breeze. From somewhere in the building, I hear someone – probably Eddie – yelling about something, and then an answering chorus of laughter.

When he wakes up, I’ll talk to him about this for real. Talking about our feelings isn’t anything different from what we’ve done over the past several years, anyway. We’ll talk and figure out something that works for both of us. Maybe I’ll even think about verbalizing those other thoughts, desires I’d never dream of sharing with anyone besides him and my wife. But I’m feeling drowsy again, and I don’t want to move until he wakes up. So I rest in his embrace and listen to his soft breathing, letting the sound rock me to sleep.

~~

~~

**Link’s POV**

Rhett suggests that we practice spooning because _of course he does._

I keep my eyes fixed on the pen he's spinning around his fingers, over and over.

“Do you wanna be the guys on set who are super uncomfortable with touching one another, or do you want us to get through this scene like it’s a natural thing?”

I wish I could get at what he’s trying to say. I can tell there’s something more beneath his words because of the way he’s keeping his tone unusually light, but I don’t know what it is.

“Plus,” he adds, “it’ll give us an excuse to rest in the middle of the day.”

“All right,” I say finally. I feel the need to add, “But no funny business.”

He laughs, reassures me that this is all for the movie. I cling to his words. This is just for the movie. If I say it to myself enough times, I’ll convince myself it’s true.

I watch him lie on the couch, his legs stretched absurdly over the armrest. He looks up at me hopefully, a smile playing across his lips.

“You look ridiculous,” I tell him.

He smacks his hand on the cushions. “Get over here, man.”

My hands are shaking, but I keep them tightly clenched as I lie down beside him.

He’s so warm. When he puts his arms around me, I’m enveloped in the familiar smell of him and I have to close my eyes because for a moment, I strangely want to cry. Thankfully, the feeling quickly passes.

“You’re not doing it right, man,” I say briskly, grasping for what’s left of my confidence. “Is this how you hold your wife? You’re terrible at it. Look…” I grab his sweaty hands and pull them more tightly around me, expecting him to resist but he doesn’t for some reason. “There. Now hold on tight. You don’t gotta be such a limp fish, all right? I _did_ shower today.”

“You’ve been working out,” is all he says.

I chuckle, thinking of all the mornings I’ve gotten up early, sometimes with Christy, to get a quick workout done before work. “Every day, brother.” I flex both arms hoping that he comments on the muscles bulging there, but he says nothing.

My hands are shaking again, more than usual. Maybe this was a bad idea.

“All right.” I tap his hand. All confidence is gone. “Time to get up.”

Leaving the warmth of his arms leaves me feeling empty. Alone. Back at my desk, I have a hard time concentrating. I like being touched, that’s no secret, but something I haven’t really thought about is how much I like it when he touches me.

Over the next few days, he wants to practice spooning again. I agree every time, even though being so close to him is messing with my head. I compensate by being critical of the way he holds me. I rarely get held; might as well milk this for what it’s worth. Usually when I start getting picky, he gets angry with me, but this time he goes along with whatever I say. Even when I tell him I don’t want to feel his leg hair (which is funny because I actually don’t mind it), he just says, “Okay,” very meekly and does what I tell him.

I start feeling guilty though. We’re both married. I shouldn’t be looking forward to this as much as I am.

I tell Christy one night after dinner. No use hiding this from the one other person in my life who’s stuck with me through so much. I feel almost ashamed when I tell her what Rhett’s been making me feel. I’m half-afraid that she’ll get upset, but I’m shocked when she tells me she understands, because Rhett’s always been there, hasn’t he, Link? She puts her arms around me gently, different from Rhett, but equally reassuring.

We talk for a long time after that. I tell her I love her and I’ve never meant anything more in my whole life.

After that, our “practicing sessions” are something I start looking forward to, as hard as that is for me to admit to myself at first. It makes me feel better, too, which I tell him one day.

“You’re like a-a freaking giant blanket,” I tell him. “I feel… I feel _better_ after we do this. Like more relaxed. Is that weird?”

Immediately, he snaps into know-it-all mode like the obnoxious friend he is. “Physical contact helps reduce stress. There’ve actually been a lot of studies done that show –”

I sigh. “Okay, Rhett, I get it. Keep talking and I really _will_ fall asleep.”

He stops talking (thank goodness), and my mind starts wandering again. I don’t know how to phrase what I want to say next. I really like when he holds me – that’s the first part. But how do I tell him the rest? How do I tell him that I want to do this more often? How do I tell him about the things that have been intruding on my dreams for the past several months, things I haven’t thought about in years?

I must have fallen asleep, because when I wake up, he’s spread his hoodie over me and is back at his desk. I watch him type away for a while. I know I’m grinning like an idiot watching him. Reminds me of the early days of internetainment back in North Carolina, when we worked even more hours than we do now. There were many times I’d take a break with my head pounding from stress, from worry about how we’ll scrape together our next paycheck, from the effort of focusing on a computer screen for so long. He’d always insist that I take a nap. I’d fall asleep and wake up to the sound of him typing, or quietly strumming his guitar as he worked out the chord progressions of a new song. It makes me think of home, lying here half awake, everything quiet but the tap of his fingers on the keyboard, and I feel a wave of nostalgia wash over me.

He looks up suddenly and our eyes meet. I wait for him to say something, but he’s gone completely still. I smile wider.

“What?” I say finally. “Do I have something on my face?”

He drops his gaze back to his laptop, muttering something about those brand deals we were supposed to review. I’ve made him uncomfortable, but I can’t put my finger on how or why. With a shrug, I rejoin him at my desk and get back to work.

~

“Man, we need to work out a way for us to do this without my arm going numb.”

I scoff at that, but he’s given me an idea.

“Y’know,” I say after a moment. “Wh-why does the taller person always have to be the bigger spoon?” I extricate myself from the grip I’d been tightening moments before, rolling over to look him in the eye. He flinches, nose wrinkling, when my forehead almost touches his.

“Man, your breath stinks!”

 _So does yours_. “Let me hold you this time.”

“But I’m bigger–”

I grab him right above his belt and squeeze a little. It does the trick. He goes silent again, his face reddening.

“Come on, man!” I’m trying to lift him, but his body is wedged too tightly between me and the couch. “Let’s trade places.”

This is less comfortable than I’d thought. His overly styled hair keeps getting in my mouth until I tell him to shift down a bit. Then we’re quiet again. I resist the urge to rub a hand across his chest or thread my fingers through his, telling myself over and over, _He’s not Christy. Don’t be stupid. He’s not Christy. She might be okay with this, but you’re pushing things as it is. He doesn’t like being touched. He’s n –_

He lets out a quiet laugh. I flinch almost guiltily.

“What are you chuckling about?” I ask.

“Remember that time I broke my arm in elementary school?”

“Yep.” We’d been playing an intense game of tag with several friends, and true to his showboating introvert self, he’d been trying to outrun the “it” person backwards. He got his foot caught in a rabbit hole hidden in the grass and fell, one arm trapped beneath him. I remember his eyes swimming with tears, but he would _not_ cry while there were other people around. He told me his arm hurt, but since he could stand up and there was no blood, our friends soon lost interest. Ben was busy poking at the rabbit hole and telling everyone of his plan to capture some rabbits for everyone to keep, so I offered to walk home with Rhett. “Your mom got pretty upset.”

To my surprise, he squeezes my hand. When I squeeze back, there’s a lump in my throat.

“I was thinking about how that was the last time anyone really held me,” he says, sounding almost shy. “Outside of my girlfriends. And my wife.”

I laugh. “I know, I-I was thinking the same thing.” I run my tongue over suddenly dry lips. “Kinda weird, ain’t it?”

He doesn’t say anything.

Now _my_ arm’s going numb.

“This isn’t relaxing,” I say. “My arm’s falling asleep.”

He doesn’t move, so I push him off the couch. He’s looking up at me as I get up and stretch, but I pretend not to notice.

I have another idea.

“I don’t want to be the big spoon,” I say, “but I do want to take a nap. Let’s try something else.” I tilt my head towards the loft. “Come with me.”

To my surprise, he does. No questions or protests, just his silent presence behind me as we climb up to the loft.

I sink into my recliner and tap a hand on my chest. “Come here.”

Again, he doesn’t protest. I’m really trembling now. When he climbs on top of me, hands and knees on either side of my shoulders and waist, there’s a moment when he’s looking down at me and I’m terrified. If I look him in the eye now, he’ll _see_ and he’ll _know._

I’m not ready for that to happen.

Then he’s resting on my chest and I feel the lump back in my throat again because the fact that he doesn’t mind me holding him is incredible.

“There,” I manage to say after a moment, trying to keep my tone light and teasing. “That’s better, isn’t it.”

“Yeah.”

“This is kinda weird, though,” I add.

He laughs, and the tension’s broken. “ _We_ are kinda weird, Link.”

He’s right. And it makes me wonder… does it matter that he’s not Christy? He doesn’t seem to care that I’m not Jessie.

When he used to pull the “I’m dead” move on me, I hated it. I hated how he thought he could get his way through sheer force. I like the weight of him now. I like feeling both safe beneath him, _and_ that I’m the one keeping him safe. It’s a real life example of how our relationship has worked for all of these years.

It’s hard to stay awake when everything’s so peaceful. I feel him stir, but I don’t have the energy to open my eyes. He’s talking now, but I can barely hear him.

Somehow, I drift off to sleep again. When I wake up, he’s still there, but sitting on his own recliner now, his eyebrows knit together. He doesn’t look away when I notice him watching me.

“Can we talk about something?” he says.

I yawn. “Go for it.”

“Is this…” He waves a hand. “Is this spooning thing something that makes you uncomfortable? We don’t have to keep doing it.”

I try to shrug as noncommittally as possible. “I don’t mind it.”

His face relaxes a little. “Good.” He’s rubbing his hands on his jeans now, long slow strokes that draw my eyes even though I tell myself not to look. “Do you think… is this something you want to do m-more of? I mean, we don’t have to,” he adds hastily. “It was just a thought. You know I don’t like being touched much or whatever, but these past couple of weeks have been nice. Not that–”

“Rhett.” I’m smiling again. “It’s all right.” I gesture at the space between us. “I’m fine with this, whatever it is.”

He smiles uncertainly. “Really?”

“Really.” I get up from the recliner, yawning. “Just make sure you tell Jes–”

“Called her already.” He waves his phone at me.

“What did she say?”

“Told me to stop beating around the bush and just talk to you.” He frowns at me. “Have you talked to Christy?”

“Yeah. She said… she said she understands.”

He looks like he wants to say something more, but I hear the office door open below us and Stevie calling our names. Sighing, I follow him back to the office. There’s more I want to say as well, but I’ll save that for later, for a time when we can talk uninterrupted. For now, it’s enough to know that this is something that we both want to happen.

Whatever that _something_ is.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. :) Find me on [Tumblr](heatgeneratingtechniques.tumblr.com) if you so desire.


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